Time After Time
by Aphrodi
Summary: It was hard, incredibly hard, to live like this. Romano went to sleep every night knowing he would probably awake mere hours later to the sound of splintering furniture or because of lack of oxygen. Living with Spain was getting harder with the day, and Romano starts to wonder if it's worth it. If he shouldn't just... let go. Dark!Spain x Romano.


**Time After Time**

A/N: This fic will be dark and angsty, will be about torture and pain, will be about a relationship between two individuals who know so much of each other and yet so little. Spain will be seriously and totally going down the wrong road in this fic, but you'll see that soon enough. This is kind of like the prologue, so it will focus more on the situation at hand than the characters themselves.

_Lying in my bed I hear the clock tick_

* * *

DO YOU KNOW they say that time heals all wounds? It's a lie. Time is nothing but a bitch.

It didn't take the mind of an immortal creature to realize that some things just simply couldn't be forgotten, couldn't be forgiven, no matter how hard one tried. Time buried and reduced, but never quite enough to make it disappear. Because no layer of dirt or metal was strong enough to keep something out of one's reach, because even though something gets splintered into tiny pieces it will still be there.

Romano swallowed, or at least, tried to swallow, but it soon turned into a pathetic coughing fit, his lungs desperately tried to suck in some air, but kept failing as the pressure on his windpipe made it impossible for the air to travel all the way down.

His breathing was labored, his lungs were screaming and his vision was swimming while he looked up, seeing nothing but the dark blur of the person who was currently sitting on top of him.

"Oh Lovi," the person crooned, the voice was sharp and unpleasant, and downright hysterical and insane. "Lovi Lovi Lovi," his name was being used like it was some kind of spell, like the voice tried to make him die by chanting it again and again. "All grown up, no need for me anymore. Strong and independent. Oh my dearest Lovi…"

Romano wheezed desperately. His eyes closed on their own accord, his eyelids too heavy to stay open. He attempted to draw in air one more time, and when his crushed windpipe failed to supply him with the much needed oxygen he embraced the darkness, floating away from a world that had changed so drastically over the last years.

Through the years they'd spent together, he'd started to notice there was something wrong with Spain. Not wrong as in the you-have-no-fucking-brain way (although at times Romano came close to considering the possibility), but wrong as in a scary way. It mostly happened after battles that had been particularly bad for his country.

The best example he had was Spain's state after he'd come back from England, his spirit and Armada crushed and rotting away somewhere deep under the sea. He'd been stuck in some kind of paralyzed state for weeks, waking up in the middle of the night because of the most awful nightmares and lying in bed for days, even after his body had partly healed and he could pick up his life again. His body had healed faster than his mind could, it had seemed.

Spain was different when he lost himself to his mind.

The sparkling green of his eyes would be clouded, and the green would have turned shades darker than their usual color. Romano would sit there, by his side, but never once would Spain blink or respond to anything the smaller nation would do or say. His battle axe, a weapon that had been by his side every single day during that age, would be clutched tightly between his hands, his fingers often gripping the sharp iron blade and cutting themselves in the process.

But not even the painful stinging in his fingers or the cramp in his hands would be enough to awake him from this state, his pupils would be wide and his teeth would be gritted as his eyes saw something no one else could see, as his mind took him somewhere no one else would ever be.

Romano would sit there in the unbearable silence, sometimes commenting on how the mess that had been made in the room wasn't his fault, his cheeks blown up childishly. He never understood what was happening back then, never realized how much was changing at that very moment. His brownish eyes never even once left Spain's tanned figure as he waited – since that were the only solutions, patience and _time_ – for it to pass. Waited for the Spaniard's brain to catapult itself back into reality.

Sometimes, whole years would pass without anything big happening, the paralyzed state would only appear in its fluffy, harmless daydream version. Romano was sure Spain had gotten better, that it was just a silly thing most old nations had that would pass when you gave it enough _time_.

The thought of that bitch made him feel enraged, made him want to hurt somebody or maybe hurt himself for being so naïve all the time, for letting it happen and not even once try to do anything against it. For letting the time nibble at Spain's brain, for letting the madness spread itself.

Time didn't do it any good. It buried itself deep within the Spaniard's soul, eating away freely for a few years before it returned, a thousand times worse than it used to be.

Impassive staring turned into violence.

Where previously his fingers had been clutching the blade of his battle axe, now they clutched Romano's throat in a dead grip that sent Romano into unconsciousness every time, that bruised his olive skin and cut off his circulation.

Rummaging turned into destroying.

While Spain used to thrash his own room as if he'd been searching for something in a hurry, now he took his battle axe and smashed it through walls and doors alike, shattering window with a hysterical laugh that was carried away by the night breeze.

Pure turned into stained.

Sometimes, when it happened all those years ago, the Spaniard would pray, his pupils too wide and his lips too frozen in place to form coherent words, but Lovino was certain Spain would pray. But those prayers filled with pleas about who-knows-what soon turned into curses, foul words even Romano had never heard of left those chapped lips, said in a voice that was so hysterical that it could have – _should _have – belonged to someone else.

Those particularly violent seizures – a seizure, yes, that was what it was – always seemed to last the longest. _Time_ seemed to stop with every piece of shattered glass cluttering onto the floor, with every moment that passed while his windpipe was being crushed.

Spain was sick, mentally ill, unwell enough to lose himself to the illusions his mind created, to wrack his house like he was murdering a whole army, to strangle the person he claimed to love (no, no, this wasn't right. This wasn't right. To strangle the person he _loved_… yes, because Spain loved him… didn't he? Or had his madness taken away his ability to love as well?).

And Romano would curse everything that was holy and alive, would take out his anger on innocent tomatoes, and would fight to keep his emotions down.

And Romano would be crushed from the inside out.

THE NEXT MORNING Romano awoke with an unbearable headache – one of the aftereffects his body provided him with when he had been out of oxygen for too long – and a very dry throat. The old clock hanging on the far wall continued in its mechanic rhythm, ticking away second after second to indicate all the time he was wasting. Because that was what it was, he was wasting his time, right?

Romano groaned, his eyes cracking open only to close again immediately after. The sunlight was too bright for him, his aches too real.

He lifted his hands and combed his fingers through his hair, hissing when his fingertips brushed his bruised neck. "Fuck. Fucking hell. Fucking Spain."

He would need to wear something that covered his neck today. He was fully aware that Spain didn't know a thing about his own nightly escapades, and Lovino wanted it to stay that way. He knew Spain would get mad at himself, would try everything he could to make it up to Romano. But the only thing that would help Romano was him turning into his normal self, but after so many centuries he knew that was a thing too unrealistic to ask for.

He didn't want Spain to be guilty, to do stupid things he would most likely do if he found out that he was the source of Romano's pain, like not sleeping anymore or locking himself into a room without food.

No, Romano could handle this. For Spain.

He bit his lip and pushed himself up, cursing loudly at the stiffness of his muscles, as if that would make it better. He got out of bed and dressed himself slowly. He was careful to avoid the mirror until the last possible moment. His eyes were widened in shock as he draped the softest scarf he owned around his neck to cover the horrifying palette of bright colors that had settled into the skin of his neck, like a messy artist had used his neck to mix his paint on.

When he stepped into the kitchen a few minutes later, Spain was just about to put a basket filled with beautiful ripe tomatoes on the countertop, a concentrated frown on his face as he set the basket down as carefully as he could, afraid to damage one of his perfect tomatoes. It made Romano's stomach twist unpleasantly.

"Ahhh, Lovi!" Spain greeted cheerfully when he took notice of Romano's presence, gracefully spinning around on his heels. "Have you slept well? I made coffee for you! And I have fresh tomatoes you can eat for breakfast!"

"Tomato bastard…" Romano grumbled, fighting down all his emotions and more importantly, the tears that threatened to be spilled. He hated himself for being so weak, for almost breaking down when Spain was like this, when he was normal, and happy, and cheerful and carefree, when he was _Spain_, and no one else.

He felt arms creep their ways around his waist as he busied himself with pouring the coffee into a mug covered with smiling turtles. He inhaled sharply as he felt a nose nuzzle into the soft fabric of his scarf. A lump formed in his throat.

"Ti amo," he heard behind him, but even though he really tried, no word managed to pass his lips.


End file.
